CHAPTER THREE: COFFEE AND COVER-UP S

The hallway outside my apartment echoed with the unmistakable sound of heavy luggage dragging across hardwood floors, followed by three sharp, rhythmic knocks.

I pulled the door open, and before I could even say hello, Sofia threw her arms around my neck, dropping an oversized leather tote bag right onto my toes.

"If I ever say I'm going to Milan Fashion Week again, shoot me," she declared, stepping past me into the apartment.

She was dressed in an impossibly chic cream knit sweater, dark trousers, and oversized sunglasses pushed up into her dark, wavy hair. She looked like she’d stepped off a runway, despite having just spent eleven hours in air transit.

"The coffee. Tell me it's ready."

"Brewed, steaming, and two shots of espresso waiting," I said, shutting the door and maneuvering around her three massive hard-shell suitcases.

"Welcome back to New York, Sof."

She collapsed onto my gray velvet sofa with a dramatic sigh, throwing her head back against the cushions.

"You are an angel. A literal saint."

I poured two dark mugs from the pot and walked over, handing one to her. I sat down on the opposite end of the couch, tucking my legs beneath me.

Sofia took a long, slow sip, closing her eyes as if experiencing a spiritual awakening.

"God bless you. Now, tell me everything. Did Todd try to explain non-fungible tokens to you over appetizers?"

"Liquidity pools, actually," I corrected, taking a sip of my own coffee. "And yes, it was every bit as mind-numbing as you imagined."

Sofia groaned, pulling her sunglasses off her head and tossing them onto the coffee table.

"I am so sorry. Chloe swore he was sweet. I’m going to murder her."

She paused, her dark brown eyes narrowing slightly as she took me in. She leaned forward, setting her mug down.

"Wait."

My pulse gave an uncomfortable little jump. "What?"

"You look..." Sofia squinted, studying my face with the terrifyingly sharp intuition she’d possessed since our dorm days.

"You have this weird glow. And you’re wearing my old NYU sweatshirt from sophomore year."

"I took a shower," I said quickly, keeping my voice deadpan. "And I like this sweatshirt."

"Bella Carter, do not lie to me," Sofia said, her lips twitching into a wicked smile. "Did you actually stay on that date? Did Todd surprise us all and turn out to be a secret stallion?"

"Gross. Absolutely not," I scoffed, feeling a sudden wave of heat creep up the back of my neck. I looked down at my coffee mug, tracing the ceramic rim. "I left early. Walked out to the terrace."

"And?"

"And I drank a quiet glass of whisky by myself, enjoyed thirty minutes of silence, came home, and went to sleep," I lied smoothly, offering her a practiced, easy smile.

Sofia sighed, sinking back into the cushions. "Boring. I was hoping for some wild, scandalous story to distract me from my family."

I caught the shift in her tone immediately. The playful spark in her eye softened, replaced by a subtle, familiar shadow of fatigue.

"Everything okay with your dad?" I asked gently.

Sofia ran a hand through her dark hair, letting out a heavy breath. "He’s just... being Dad. He called me three times while I was in the gate area at Malpensa. Then he sent two of his security guys to meet me at JFK." She rolled her eyes, though there was a soft, affectionate smile pulling at her mouth.

"I told him I’m twenty-five, not twelve, but you know how he is. He thinks the entire world is waiting around the corner to mug me."

"He loves you, Sof," I said softly. "He's just protective."

"Protective is an understatement. He operates like he's managing a national security threat," she chuckled, shaking her head.

"Anyway, he wants me home for dinner tonight. And he explicitly told me to bring you."

I froze for a split second, my cup halfway to my mouth.

"Tonight?"

"Yes, tonight. Please say you'll come," Sofia pleaded, putting her hands together in a mock prayer.

"If it's just the two of us, he's going to spend two hours asking me about my investment portfolio and checking if my driver maintained the car properly. If you're there, he actually behaves like a normal human being."

I hesitated. I'd met Sofia's father before, but only in passing over our six years of friendship. A handshake at graduation. A brief hello when he dropped her off at the dorms freshman year. I’d never had a real reason to study his face or pay attention to his voice; he was just Sofia's wealthy, ridiculously busy dad who existed somewhere in the background of her life.

"I don't know, Sof," I said slowly. "I have a mountain of client emails to catch up on, and I look like a drowned rat right now."

"You look fine, and you can answer emails on the subway," Sofia countered smoothly. She reached over, grabbing my hand.

"Come on, Bel. My dad's personal chef is making wild boar ragù. Real Italian, not the tourist garbage I had in Milan."

I laughed, the knot in my stomach loosening slightly. It was just a dinner. A home-cooked meal at the De Luca townhouse, a night catching up with my best friend, and a quiet evening far away from high-end rooftop lounges and anonymous strangers.

"Fine," I conceded, shaking my head. "On one condition."

"Anything."

"You help me drag those three massive suitcases into my guest room first."

Sofia grinned, holding up her mug.

"Deal."

By seven o'clock that evening, the autumn sky had turned a dark navy, casting a cold chill over the Upper East Side.

The De Luca residence sat on a quiet street near Fifth Avenue—a four-story limestone townhome with heavy iron gates. Sofia unlocked the gate with a small brass key, leading me up the marble steps to the high double doors. Before she could reach for the handle, the left door opened silently from the inside.

A stocky man in a dark suit stood in the doorway. He had graying hair and a neutral expression that didn't shift even as Sofia beamed at him.

"Good evening, Miss Sofia," he said, stepping aside.

"Welcome home."

"Hi, Marco," Sofia said cheerfully, slipping past him into the foyer.

"This is Bella."

Marco gave me a brief nod.

"Miss Carter. Good to see you again."

"Hi, Marco," I replied, stepping inside and pulling my coat tighter around myself.

The air inside was warm, smelling of old wood and slow-simmering garlic and herbs from down the hall.

A crystal chandelier cast a soft glow across the polished floor.

I reached up to unbutton my coat, slipping it off my shoulders.

"Here, let me take that," Sofia offered, taking my coat and turning toward the mahogany closet near the front entrance.

She hung my coat on a padded hanger. As she reached inside, her elbow brushed against my leather purse resting on the lower bench. The bag tipped sideways, unzipping at the top.

Clink.

A small, heavy piece of metal slid out of the side pocket, bouncing off the floor and coming to a stop against the toe of Marco's shoe.

"Oops, sorry!" Sofia said, bending down to grab it.

My heart instantly plummeted.

"Wait, Sof—" I started, reaching out, but it was already too late.

Sofia picked up the heavy gold cufflink, holding it up to inspect it.

"What's this?" she asked, her eyebrows pulling together. She turned the piece over in her palm, tracing the heavy metal surface. "Bella, why do you have a cufflink in your bag?"

I stood frozen, blood rushing into my ears with a deafening roar.

"I—it's..." My voice caught in my throat.

Sofia stared at the gold emblem engraved into the center. Her expression shifted from curiosity to total confusion.

"This is..." Sofia murmured, her thumb brushing over the intricate design of the crowned lion coiled around the broadsword. She looked up, her eyes wide. "Where did you get this? This is my family's crest."

The room seemed to tilt on its axis.

"Your... what?" I whispered.

"Our crest," Sofia repeated, holding the gold cufflink toward me. "My dad has these custom-made in Florence. He's the only one who wears them."

Before the words could fully register in my brain, heavy, measured footsteps echoed down the staircase from the second floor.

"Sofia?"

The voice was low, rich, and naturally velvet—a baritone that vibrated straight down my spine.

I turned slowly, my eyes drifting up the curve of the stairs.

Descending the steps, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit with dark hair silvered at the temples, was the man from the terrace.

He took one more step, then stopped abruptly, his hand tightening on the wrought-iron railing. His dark, watchful eyes swept over the foyer, landing first on his daughter, then shifting toward me.

The air left my lungs entirely.

The faint, precise scar along his left jawline caught the chandelier light. His gaze locked onto mine, and for half a second, his composure fractured—a subtle, hard freeze that vanished instantly behind an impenetrable mask.

His eyes dropped to the gold cufflink sitting in his daughter's hand, then rose back to meet my face.

"Bella," Sofia said, entirely oblivious to the oxygen disappearing from the room, turning to look at mewith a smile.

"Meet my dad."